


The Words We Wear

by FrauKatzen



Series: Soul Goals [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love, M/M, Soulmates, They love each other, soul mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7342756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrauKatzen/pseuds/FrauKatzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock Holmes did not want nor need a soulmate, but he could work with an archenemy. An archenemy promised variance; a soulmate promised tedium. If Sherlock never heard the white words spoken aloud, he would be a very happy man.</i>
</p><p><i></i>Well, bit different from my day.<i></i></p><p>
  <i>What rubbish.</i>
</p><p>OR</p><p>Another soulmate story (aka just what you were looking for).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [切肤之词](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7793638) by [CheerW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheerW/pseuds/CheerW)



When the scabby writing first appeared, Sherlock found himself excited more than anything.  

 

_Oh, sorry; I didn’t—_

Such innocuous words: could mean anything, really. Although most words that appeared on a person’s forearm were just that: meaningless until spoken. In that, though, lay a mystery, and Sherlock Holmes had something of an affinity for solving those, even at thirteen. They burned on his wrist, the colour of dried blood, seven years after the initial white, scarred calligraphy appeared. The new marks (that lay six inches or so above the radiant white words that were already encrypted onto his flesh forever, the ones Sherlock found to be decidedly _boring,_ even at the age of six when they had first shown) were interesting.

An archenemy was something of a rarity among the general population: something to be feared more than revered. Nearly everyone had the white words—it was said that if you didn’t, you were a psychopath. Sherlock, however, despised his white words—sentiment was a weakness, after all. His brother, Mycroft, had yet to have any words appear and, being seven years his senior and unlikely to get any ever, was intolerable about Sherlock’s soulmate sentence. Teased him any chance he got, which was frequently.

 

Not really a sentence even. Neither phrase that claimed his forearm were fully formed clauses, truly. They both read rather innocuously, although the fact that one burned bloody and the other shone like an angel’s halo made one fascinating and the other despicable.

 

Sherlock Holmes did not want nor need a soulmate, but he could work with an archenemy. An archenemy promised variance; a soulmate promised tedium. If Sherlock never heard the white words spoken aloud, he would be a very happy man.

 

_Well, bit different from my day._

What rubbish.

 

\---

 

John Watson was a romantic at heart. When he was ten years old and his words appeared in a glowing, serif font, he was ecstatic. Up until that point, most people he knew already had their words and, while not exactly worried that his would never show, was impatient to receive them. He knew from the start, when he had first learned about soulmates as soon as he was old enough to understand, that he would love him or her in whatever way was destined. He hoped that he was one of the few who met his soulmate early in life. He wanted to belong to him or her and the same in reverse for as long as possible.

 

_Mike, can I borrow your phone?_

He spent ages looking at them before sleep each night—would trace them with pen and marker while at school, framing them in colour and getting scolded by his teachers when he didn’t pay attention to do so. Some of his fellow classmates who came from more traditional families would wear an armband to cover theirs, but John would never—he wore his proudly, his heart literally on his sleeve.

 

It was with no small amount of dismay, then, when he hadn’t heard his soulmate’s words by the time he left for university and continually didn’t hear them throughout his years there. He ceased tracing them with marker and started wearing long sleeves more often. Where once the script made him happy when he gazed at it every night, he now felt a heavy sadness invade his chest at the sight of them. Where once they brought joy they now brought hopeless confusion: he should have listened to all those who told him that meeting a soulmate is random—one shouldn’t ever hope to meet them by a certain age.

 

But John had been so sure that _he_ would meet them young. He, who would surely love his soulmate more than the average human being. For so many years he thought his destiny was to love.

 

His hopes were briefly lifted by meeting a Mike Stamford at university to whom he became quite close—could this be the man that led him to his soulmate? The addressee of the phrase, after all, is a Mike. But there are hundreds of Mikes in England, John is sure. Has met several, actually, but never any to whom he was particularly close.

 

But, no, Mike, one year older, graduated and moved away to Stirling. No chance of seeing him again unless John went to visit or vice versa.

 

In the end, John joined the army.

 

\---

  
Sherlock laid back on his bed with a sigh of pure bliss and let the needle fall to the ground. This— _this—_ was surely the meaning of life. A carefully-measured seven milliliter injection of seven-percent solution to the veins. A sterile stab through the white words. Red words forgotten. This was all that mattered.

 

He lay there, still as the dead, for approximately two point four minutes before shooting his eyes open—he could finally _think_. He knew exactly how much time had passed—didn’t pause for a second to evaluate this claim—he was _confident_ —and then he called the police—he _knew_ who had done the murder he had read about in the paper that morning, and he _would_ prove himself correct.

 

\---

 

John signed up for a second tour after the first—this time, he was sent to Afghanistan, and he didn’t feel a thing about it. From cosy Deutschland to the caustic Middle East and not a flinch. If anything, John was empowered. Finally there was meaning—after so long. He had hoped joining the military meant making a difference. Instead, he found himself following orders and drinking local beer on his off time. A pleasant fate for most: for him, he felt trapped in inanity. There wasn’t enough alcohol to block out his glowing words for long, and he didn’t want to succumb to the substance like so many of his family members had.

 

Ultimately, after months of binge drinking with fellow soldiers, the threat of real war sobered him up.

 

He began wearing an armband.

 

Never had he felt so alive.

 

\---

 

Sherlock wasn’t expecting it. He had spent his entire life disregarding the meaning of the words, so when he heard them for the first time, he decided not to acknowledge them. He wasn’t _weak_. Sentiment was a weakness, and he wouldn’t succumb.

 

“Well, bit different from my day.”

 

Sherlock barely spared a glance up from his microscope, although his heart pounded in his chest with adrenaline. A fight or flight response, of course—Sherlock knew the science behind it, but he loathed being reminded he was as animal as the next idiot. As much as he had tried to delete the gleaming words on his arm from his mind in the past, it was impossible. Some animalistic evolutionary trait, no doubt. Now, if the red words were to be spoken then _that_ would be something else entirely.

 

Sherlock blocked out anything past that and merely said, “Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Still, he only looked at the pair briefly. But, god, the man just had to speak again after Mike excused himself as not having his on his person.

 

“Here, use mine.” And while the man— _the army doctor_ , his mind corrected him as Sherlock took in his appearance—approached, his arm was steady but his voice was shaking, much like Sherlock’s insides.

 

To have words written on his wrist since he was a young child—words that he never wanted to hear—spoken aloud shook him to his core. _No fight, just flight_. Or maybe a bit of both because Sherlock so rapidly spat out his deductions at this man—this John Watson—that his head was spinning on itself. It was all he could do to stand up, abandoning whatever now-forgotten experiment lay within his microscope, and leave—but not before inviting the man— _your soulmate_ , his unhelpful mind supplied—a room to lease in the flat he just acquired.

 

\---

 

“Mike,” John said once Sherlock Holmes had left the room. That’s when the trembling began, post-encounter. He nearly collapsed into a nearby stool, his legs were shaking so badly. “Mike, look at this.” John began to push up the shirtsleeve on his right arm.

 

Mike leaned forward, examining his friend’s forearm as it was revealed.

 

“Well, fuck, mate, aren’t you glad you met me?”

 

John stared unblinkingly at his much-beloved, then much-ignored words. “Dunno if I’m glad or horrified you moved back to London. Bloody hell.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love soulmate stories and decided to add mine to the pile. Also, I’m not much a fan of betas, but let me know if any Americanisms stick out to you and mess with the flow and I will do my best to correct them. This will be a short story of multiple short chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Study in Pink soulmate style

The words on his arm throbbed with a ferocity like never before as John approached 221 Baker Street. He wasn’t sure if this was because of his renewed awareness of them or something else entirely. In any case, John’s palms were unprecedentedly sweaty as he limped step after step toward his supposed-soulmate and potential-flatmate. He gripped his cane fiercely.

 

Sherlock Holmes awaited him outside, looking for everything like he was the most composed man in the world. John wondered wildly for a moment if he had hallucinated the words on his arm being spoken in some PTSD fever-dream.

 

“John Watson,” said Sherlock.

 

John inclined his head, eyes locked on that man, taking in every detail he hadn’t had the chance to observe the previous day. It took a solid minute before he realized that they both hadn’t done anything other than stare at the other silently. In any other instance, John would have made a joke—they must look like a pair of lunatics staring at one another on the pavement—but he was feeling decidedly off. Instead, he cleared his throat.

 

Fortunately Sherlock got the hint as soon as the sound emerged and took a halting step toward the door. “Shall we—”

 

“Erm, yes, let us—”

 

Upon entering, John immediately loved the flat. Despite the clutter reaching far and wide to every corner, a rightness permeated through him as he took in the cozy armchair with a Union Jack pillow thrown haphazardly onto it and the fleur de lis-patterned paper covering the wall.

 

“Yes, this could do quite nicely. Just move some of this junk out—”

 

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said hurriedly—awkwardly. “I suppose I could shift some things around.”

 

John was saved the embarrassment of his comment just barely by the arrival of the landlady.

 

\---

 

Sherlock didn’t know why he kept inviting this small man to partake in his life. It was as if his mouth and body were suddenly disconnected from his mind—although that was not entirely right, he considered. It was more like his will was disconnected from his rationality.

 

When he invited John to the crime scene, he had initially not thought much of it. It wasn’t until they were in the cab and finally forced to talk that Sherlock began to regret his decision. However, when John didn’t scorn him for analyzing his life in invasive detail and instead laughed with Sherlock at the feeble joke he made, Sherlock felt something loathed and warm expand in his belly.

 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say other than, “He’s with me,” when Donovan asked after John. He was avoiding the soulmate topic for as long as possible—possibly not his smartest move to invite John Watson into his life if this was his long-term goal, but the doctor appeared to tear down any barrier Sherlock had erected around himself simply by breathing.

 

It was a terrifying thing, this power John Watson had over Sherlock. Perhaps that was why Sherlock left the scene without him.

 

It wasn’t until later that night that the topic came up in any fashion. They were sat at a table by the window in Angelo’s waiting for the killer.

 

John was the one to broach: “So I was wondering—”

 

“Always a scary thing when involving the general populace.” Sherlock kept his eyes up and staring out the window. He was hyperaware of John’s presence. In fact, Sherlock had _brought_ him here knowing John would bring this up sooner rather than later, but he wasn’t ready. He certainly wasn’t prepared for his soulmate to come to mean anything to him.

 

Sherlock feared it was already be too late.

 

“Look, Sherlock,” John said, “I think we both need to talk about this.”

 

“The fact that there is a serial killer we should be looking for at this very moment? Been there, done that. Focus—is—needed.”

 

Sherlock heard John release a mighty exhale.

 

John didn’t get the chance to speak again, for the killer took that moment to appear in a cab.

 

The ensuing chase was one of the better ones of his life, a spry army doctor with a forgotten cane joining him to help him tackle down a criminal—or not so much, in this case—Californian, tourist.

 

Later, when they collapsed against the downstairs of 221 Baker Street, panting and giggling like a pair of schoolboys, Sherlock noted that this feeling might top the one of seven percent solution rushing through his body.

 

\---

 

John’s heartbeat was irregularly calm as he tried to stare curiously out across the ambulances and police cars surrounding the building where serial killer Jeff Hope died. His browning pressed hotly and tightly against his lower back, but John stayed still, the weight of it comforting more than anything.

 

Never had he expected his soulmate to be quite so eccentric. Or anything like Sherlock, at all, if Sherlock was in fact his soulmate, which John was nearly completely sure of despite Sherlock’s clear avoidance of the topic. For one thing, John always assumed it would be a woman who would eventually speak his words (although he hadn’t dismissed the idea of it being a man). For another, John had never been attracted to men, and he always sensed that his soulmate and he would share a romantic love rather than a platonic or familial. The fact that it was a man should have stopped John short, and if he thought about it too long it did start a slight panic, but it felt too natural to be wrong.

 

John had only known Sherlock less than forty-eight hours, but that had been enough to instill icy fear in his heart when he figured out Sherlock had gone with the killer alone. Soulmates, John knew, while they couldn’t sense the other’s emotions or read each other’s thoughts (ridiculous notion, really), they still had a soul-deep affinity that made them abnormally closer at a more rapid pace than one would have with someone who was not a soulmate.

 

As a child, John had bought into that, but as he aged and had yet to meet his soulmate he had scoffed at it. John didn’t care in the slightest that he was being a hypocrite now—he knew, even without Sherlock’s confirmation, that he was his soulmate, and that was what mattered most in this moment.

 

He spotted Sherlock across the scene shrugging off a shock blanket and looking supremely annoyed. John couldn’t help but smile even after all the chaos of the past two days—this madman was to be his—if he could convince him to talk to him about it for even half a minute.

 

\---

 

Sherlock trailed off in his deductions as he spotted John Watson behind the tape. Obvious.

 

“It’s just the—shock talking,” Sherlock said vaguely, tossing the blanket on the ground and striding away from DI Lestrade, mentioning how he had to discuss rent, headed toward— “Evening.”

 

John Watson’s smile shouldn’t have been able to affect his heartbeat as it did. “’Lo. Dreadful, innit? The pills and poison. Donovan explained.”

 

Sherlock attempted to suppress the glow he felt expanding from his arm and through his body. His eyes surely gave him away. This man— _his_ _soulmate_ , his mind corrected, and this time Sherlock let that sweep over him in a warm wave—was magnificent. He wondered how he could have ever thought that he didn’t want a soulmate. John Watson was more than he could have expected. He was drawn to him the moment he heard him say the words etched on his skin, and it hadn’t stopped there. John had come to a crime scene, dealt with _Mycroft_ , chased a criminal, and shot someone for him, even after learning about his quiescent drug habit.

 

He wasn’t a big believer in fate, but in that moment Sherlock didn’t give a damn and thanked whoever brought this compact, fierce army doctor to him a hundred times over.

 

“Good shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of emotional constipation is always needed when dealing with these two.


	3. Chapter 3

John moved in rather sooner than anticipated—the next day, in fact. But after all they had been through it only made sense that this, too, would be a bit rushed.

 

Sherlock found himself wondering why he wasn’t panicking. Whereas he would normally have been questioning his sanity at having let a person get so close to him—never mind so _quickly_ —in this case he didn’t feel anything other than supreme rightness and comfort. In fact, John’s possessions intermingling with his was a very satisfying reality.

 

His shoes next to Sherlock’s by the door and his jacket by Sherlock’s Belstaff brought Sherlock peace, although he would not be one to admit to such sentiment aloud.

 

Instead, Sherlock threw himself down onto the couch, hands steepled under his chin and eyes closed as he listened to the sounds of John unpacking above him. John only brought a few boxes with him total, though, so in a matter of minutes Sherlock heard footsteps down the stairs.

 

Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock was all-too-in-tune with John’s location in the room—in this moment, settling down in the armchair opposite Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock—”

 

His eyes darted open, and he cut John off before he could express some horrendously atrocious emotional dialogue. “While I can’t say I am disdainful of your presence—in fact, it is very much welcome at this moment—I do ask you to keep your foolish speech to yourself. We both know what you want to discuss, and presently that is _boring_ because of said fact that we _both know_. If we could move on to the part where you want to see my arm and I see yours so you can satisfy your silly need for confirmation that would be _fine_.”

 

Sherlock ripped up the sleeve of his robe and thrust his arm out to John, displaying his words. _Well, bit different from my day._

 

John seemed to smile at him in amusement—smirking, even—and casually rolled up his sleeve to show Sherlock his words. _Mike, can I borrow your phone?_

 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of them—he wasn’t expecting that seeing them would have such an impact. He tried valiantly to cover up his reaction. In the end, it didn’t seem he managed because, finally glancing up into John’s laughing face, Sherlock was told, “I was actually going to ask you what exactly a human head is doing in the fridge.”

 

Sherlock, who very rarely in his life was flustered, blushed.

 

\---

 

“You have another set of words.”

 

Sherlock, who was currently testing the rate of decay of human fingernails using different sorts of acid on the kitchen counter, grunted.

 

“Archenemy words, in fact.”

 

“Do go on, John, at this rate of deduction you may get to the point before sunrise.”

 

“It’s not Mycroft, is it?” At that Sherlock looked up, pausing where he was hovering the dropper above a rather jagged thumbnail. John was sitting in his chair, casually typing away on his laptop. They had been living together for nearly a month now and almost nothing had changed. They fell into a very comfortable routine of coexisting. They still slept in different beds, but sometimes he saw John him give him looks that could only be interpreted as longing. Sherlock, never having been on the receiving end of such attentions, was unsure how to respond. Affirmatively, from how the looks made his stomach stir in anticipation, but Sherlock wasn’t sure how to get there.

 

Nothing physical had happened so far.

 

“Of course not; don’t be ridiculous.” That would be utterly boring.

 

“Do you know who it is?”

 

Sherlock sighed and went back to his project with less enthusiasm. “No.” In fact, ever since meeting John, the idea of encountering his archenemy had become much less attractive than it once did. He already had John—who could possibly top him?

 

And with John came the possibility that he could lose him—a very terrifying prospect, to Sherlock, who had come to rely on his tea and shoes by Sherlock’s shoes and _being there_. An archenemy could mean nothing good when it came to John Watson.

 

\---

 

It was one month after that that Sherlock heard his archenemy words. “Oh, sorry; I didn’t—”

 

Absurd, really—another encounter at Bart’s. In the end, Sherlock put them off as coincidence—those words really were quite common. Hundreds of people said them all the time. It was just that they were on his mind that he even put any notice to them at all.

 

Molly’s boyfriend Jim was no threat to him, that much was obvious. Gay, yes—not an enemy, though.

 

Sherlock barely spared the man a glance, instead choosing to turn back to John who had had a very warm hand on his shoulder attempting to deduce the story behind Carl Power’s trainers.

 

\---

 

When John stepped out from the doorway and onto the pool deck, Sherlock felt his heart literally stop for a moment.

 

The ensuing encounter with Moriarty was as unpleasant and horrible as he had anticipated—it _was_ Molly’s boyfriend, and Sherlock could hit himself for his own stupidity. If he had noticed then—if he hadn’t disregarded the words in such an overconfident burst of ego—then John could be safe. It wasn’t _fair_ , really. He had never wanted a soulmate, only an archenemy, and now that he had both, all he could think was how very foolish of a child he had been.

 

“Archenemies, Sherlock?” Moriarty sang. “Thought you might have figured that one out after I gave you my number—hoped you would call. But no—Doctor Watson your soulmate—you already have someone.” His voice grew softer here, and Sherlock was full of dread. “Let me tell you a little secret—some of my future plans. Not today—not tomorrow—but _soon_. I will burn the _heart_ out of you.”

 

Sherlock refused to look at John, terrified for him.

 

“Well,” Moriarty said, clapping his hands, “how absolutely _wonderful_ this little reunion has been. But I simply _must_ be going.”

 

“See you. . .around,” Sherlock said quietly.

 

“No you won’t!” came the response, silky and torturous as ever.

 

\---

 

As soon as the door of 221b closed, John pulled Sherlock into an embrace, shaking very slightly. John was relieved when, after a moment, Sherlock returned the hug, grasping just as tightly, if not more so.

 

“You’re _mine_ ,” John swore. “He can’t have you.”

 

Sherlock’s breath was heavy in his ear. “Nor you.”

 

John pulled back to lean his forehead on Sherlock’s, feeling all the stress of the last day fall away with the scent of this very familiar man filling him. “He won’t win. I won’t let him.”

 

“We’ll get him, John, I swear it.” And then Sherlock was kissing him passionately, pushing him backward until his back hit the door. “I love you.”

 

John’s head fell back as Sherlock kissed down his neck. “Oh, _god_ , come here.” John didn’t know what he meant—it didn’t make sense—all he knew was that he wanted to be closer to Sherlock, be _in_ him, metaphorically and literally. Two halves of a whole trying to become one.

 

One soul to mate together.

 

“I love you,” Sherlock repeated, slowing the frantic motion of his lips and tongue on his neck. “I’ll keep you.”

 

“I know you will.” John pulled back, smiling slightly at Sherlock’s mussed hair and puffy lips, already eons calmer than he was earlier. “And I love you, too, for what it’s worth.”

 

Sherlock smiled this time, wider than John had seen it before. Sherlock glanced down to their side where their arms aligned. John watched as Sherlock rolled up his right sleeve, John’s arm compliant as Sherlock maneuvered it. Sherlock then reached for his own right arm, pushing the material back until both their words were showing, glowing brightly in proximity to one another.

 

Sherlock crossed his arm across his body, looking down for a moment, then back up at John. Those piercing pale eyes held nothing but surety and warmth. John didn’t even think twice before pressing his words directly into Sherlock’s.

 

Just for now—for these brief moments of quiet—he let the glow consume them and create one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Would love to know what you thought!


End file.
